


I'm pretty when I lie

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, F/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6441796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do your worst,” Simmons says, her eyes fixed over Whitehall’s shoulder. “I won’t tell you anything.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary. After all, I already have.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm pretty when I lie

**Author's Note:**

> Title from VAST's "pretty when you cry" (aka the most biospec song).

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” Whitehall says as he pushes back from his desk to meet them in the center of the office.

Grant doesn’t know why it’s a surprise, he radioed in once they were clear of SHIELD - and then spent the next hour trying to figure out how to undo what he’d done.

For all she fought him tooth and nail on the way here, now Simmons shifts closer to him like she thinks he’ll protect her from Whitehall. The old bastard grins at her and takes her face in his hands to examine the cuts and bruises she suffered in the skirmish. His thumbs brush soot and dirt off her cheeks and his fingers curl around the back of her skull when she tries to tip back out of his hold.

Grant toys with the idea of cutting off Whitehall’s hands.

He didn’t mean to capture Simmons. He knows Whitehall put a price on her head - alive, it stipulates, and as unharmed as possible (Grant can figure pretty easy what a guy like Whitehall would want with an uninjured prisoner). He should’ve shot her. He considered it a time or two on the ride here, but there were variables, just like in that lab. There, it was fucking Baldon catching sight of him shielding Simmons from the falling ceiling and telling everyone on their damn channel that Grant had caught her. On the flight, it was two dozen heavily armed HYDRA agents he would’ve had to take out to hide his sympathy from Whitehall.

So he didn’t shoot her, no matter how much she begged or fought or insulted; he dragged her up here instead. He’s already regretting it.

“Welcome back, Miss Simmons,” Whitehall says with that oily smile of his. His hands move to her shoulders and Grant checks the impulse to pull Simmons away from him. “I hope you didn’t have any plans, you’ll be staying for quite a while.”

“Do your worst,” she says, her eyes fixed over Whitehall’s shoulder. “I won’t tell you anything.”

Grant doesn’t bother to fight his smile. The strong set to her back and shoulders might be more from the handcuffs constricting her movements, but she’s making the most of it; he wouldn’t know she was terrified if he hadn’t seen her on the flight here.

“Oh,” Whitehall says with a false frown, “I don’t think that will be necessary. After all, I already have.”

Simmons catches on at the same moment Grant does if her horrified expression is anything to go by, but it’s not enough to save her. Whitehall jumps right into the activation phrase and Grant gets to watch while the fear and fight drain from her, her muscles relax in something that looks almost like relief, and an eerie, empty smile replaces the _fuck you_ expression she’s been wearing since she set foot in the building.

“I’m happy to comply,” she says.

Whitehall smiles, disgustingly pleased with himself, and gestures for Grant to undo her cuffs as he moves for the plush chairs to one side of the room. Grant has to swallow down his feelings - literally - at the way Simmons leans after him, like she’s bereft of his touch.

Cutting off the bastard’s hands is looking more appealing by the minute.

“Thank you,” she says with hollow sincerity when she’s free to rub at her reddened skin.

“Come,” Whitehall orders, “both of you.”

Grant takes his time while Simmons practically runs over; he’s not sure if he’s more pissed about her being treated like a dog or him being lumped in with her.

“Now, Agent Simmons,” Whitehall says after pressing a drink into her hands, “why don’t you tell us all about what Coulson’s been up to since you left us?”

And she does. _Everything._ She tells them about Skye’s worries over her father and Coulson looking for the same secrets Whitehall is. She rolls her eyes when she talks about the new weapons designs - “the team Coulson’s put on the new generation ICERs is utterly useless” - and, when she gets to Grant’s walk of shame, pauses to look him over.

“I hope you didn’t injure yourself too severely when you escaped?” Her hand inches forward on the arm of her chair, eager to check him over herself.

“I’m fine, Simmons,” Grant says, a little gruffer than he means. There isn’t enough alcohol in this entire _base_ and, as Grant can’t refill his glass as often as he’d like without drawing suspicion, he is woefully sober for this conversation.

Whitehall’s eyes narrow. “Something wrong, Agent Ward? You’ve been surprisingly quiet. Nothing to say to your old friend?”

Grant’s eyes slide briefly to Simmons, who’s clearly angling to get a look at the scar on his left arm. He tugs his sleeve down impatiently. “I’m just surprised. I’ve never known anyone before they were-” he searches briefly for a word that won’t come out sounding like he wants to tear Whitehall apart- “compliant. I didn’t think she’d still be … her.”

Whitehall’s suspicions are eased by the pseudo-compliment. “Yes. When I first started with HYDRA we had no choice but to strip the subject completely, practically down to the bone - most people were left useless for anything but menial tasks - but these days we have much more precise methods. You’ll be able to return to the labs tomorrow, my dear.”

Simmons beams under his proud smile and Grant has to look away. To anyone else, she looks perfectly happy, but he’s seen Simmons light up a room like she’s the fucking _sun_ ; she’s a shadow of her former self.

“The time away wouldn’t have been possible then either,” he goes on. “Tell me, did you notice any change in her? We’re always trying to improve the process, you see.”

“No,” Grant says. “Nothing that would make me think this.”

Whitehall frowns again. “But there was a change?”

Grant smiles tightly as he reaches to refill his drink - it’s been two minutes exactly and he’s not waiting a second longer. “When I was paraded past Coulson’s troops, she said something I never would’ve thought her capable of.”

“What did she say?” Whitehall asks with a hint of a laugh.

Simmons looks away, shame-faced, and Grant doesn’t much want to repeat it himself, but Whitehall presses.

“Jemma.”

Grant’s hand tightens around his glass. It would be so _easy_ to break it off in Whitehall’s trachea.

“I told him,” Simmons says stiffly, “that if I ever saw him again, I would kill him.”

Whitehall laughs and Grant downs the whole glass in one go, appearances be damned.

“Well, that was rather rude of you,” Whitehall says, his voice light with lingering laughter. “Especially after all you told me Ward was forced to endure in Coulson’s care.”

Her head drops lower and Grant is strangely reminded of Coulson reading her the riot act after Morocco.

“I think you should show him how you really feel about him.”

Simmons’ head snaps up and she stares at Whitehall with wide eyes.

“Go on,” he prods.

“Happy to comply,” she says a touch shakily and slips off her chair. She takes his empty glass first and sets it on the table, clearly stalling for time.

“Simmons,” Grant says as she towers over him. It’s odd to have to tip his head back to see her and it puts him off balance more than the alcohol or her damned compliance - that’s what he tells himself anyway; it explains why he reacts the way he does.

The chair is wide enough she can settle her knees on either side of his legs. He catches her hips without thinking and then her hands are on his face, holding him gently in place so she can kiss him. It’s slow enough he has plenty of time to think about Skye, about how _wrong_ this is, but it lingers long enough to bury every single one of those thoughts. She doesn’t ever _stop_ but she also doesn’t advance past chaste (or borderline chaste; her hips are rolling maddeningly over his and she’s gotta feel him straining at his jeans).

He thinks, as he tries to pull her deeper, that it’s a lot like months of flirty smiles and encouraging touches that were never gonna go anywhere, all compacted into one exceptional kiss. Even brainwashed out of her damn mind, Simmons is getting her revenge for the games he played with her on the Bus.

She pulls back after way too long and not fucking long enough and Grant’s hands tense on her ass to keep her from settling too far back on his lap - or just getting up at all.

“As you can see,” Whitehall says, snapping Grant back to reality, “I don’t think she meant it.”

Her eyes widen at the way his grip tightens and her fingers curl on his shoulders in response.

“It’s been a long day.” Whitehall rises from his chair and Simmons scrambles to mimic him; Grant lets her. “And I think you deserve some compensation for going above and beyond, Agent Ward. Why don’t the two of you finish this in your quarters and we’ll resume the debriefing at 0800.”

A blush burns Simmons’ cheeks and Grant shifts forward to the edge of his seat.

“No,” he says. And that stops Whitehall in his tracks.

“What was that?”

“No offense to Agent Simmons, sir,” Grant says and is damn proud that it comes out sounding less than murderous, “I don’t much like a woman who’s gonna go telling all my secrets to another man the second we’re done.” Or a woman who only wants him because she’s been told she _has_ to, but that’s not exactly the HYDRA line, is it?

“Always the tactician,” Whitehall says with something like respect. He rounds the low coffee table to tip Simmons’ chin up. “Agent Simmons? With Bakshi still lost to SHIELD, you’re in need of a new supervising officer. I rather think Agent Ward would be a good replacement. Do you understand what that means?”

She nods against Whitehall’s hand. “He’s my immediate superior, I’m to do as he says.”

“So long as his instructions do not violate the best interests of HYDRA.”

She nods again. “Of course. Hail HYDRA.”

Grant stands, beyond done with this. “Well, that’s settled then,” he says with a smile and takes Simmons’ arm. This time he doesn’t stop himself from pulling her away from Whitehall; if he doesn’t, if he has to spend _one more second_ watching Whitehall smile at her like she’s some dog performing tricks, he’s gonna do something he can’t take back.

Simmons is quiet for the whole ride down to Grant’s quarters on level ten, which is his first indication that she’s more nervous about this than the brainwashing would have him believe. The second is the way she shakes when they reach his room.

“Calm down,” he orders shortly as he locks the door behind them. And then he lets his forehead fall against it because ordering her around is the _last_ thing he wants to do right now.

“Will you help me?” she asks, only the slightest tremor to her voice to let him know the order hasn’t taken yet. When he turns and finds her with her shirt already off, it’s even odds whether she means with her bra or with calming down.

“No,” he says and grabs her shirt from where she’s dropped it to drape it over her chest. He holds it to her shoulders so he can look her in the eye when he says this next part. “That’s not gonna happen, okay? We’re not-” He looks away with a grimace. “I’m not that guy.”

She’s got a hold of her own damn shirt now so he steps away to kick off his shoes.

“And anyway, I’m in love with Skye.”

A laugh erupts from her; she obviously doesn’t mean it to - from the quick way it cuts off and the sheepish look on her face when he throws her a glare - but it does.

“ _What_ ,” he demands levelly.

She shakes her head and he tears off his jacket as he approaches her.

“Your SO asked you a question, _Agent Simmons_. Answer it.”

She tips her chin up, defiant. “You’re not in love with Skye.”

His jaw tightens and he reminds himself that Simmons isn’t in control of her own damn tongue.

“You’re obsessed with her. There’s a difference.”

“Oh? How would you know? You ever been in love?” He walks away and settles on the edge of the bed so she can have the desk chair.

“No,” she says readily.

“Fitz will be devastated,” Grant mutters and doesn’t miss the way she twitches.

“But I know what it’s not,” she presses. “I know it’s not wanting to break someone so they’ll be like you.”

“Watch it.”

She might be cowed, but he can’t quiet tell. If she is, it’s not enough to drive her away; she ignores the desk chair and comes to sit next to him on the bed, taking his hand and turning it over so she can finally have a look at his suicide scars. She’s determined, he’ll give her that.

“Love is wanting someone to be _better_ ,” she says softly while her fingers travel up the inside of his arm, “it’s wanting to be better yourself.”

His nerves are still on edge from that kiss, and her touch, every time it gently stops and starts against the raised criss-crosses, sends a pulse straight to his cock.

“Careful, Simmons,” he says, “you almost sound like you want to have sex with me.”

Her fingers freeze. He wraps her hand in his.

“I meant what I said,” he says. “I’m not that guy. You know what Lorelei did to me-”

She tries to pull her hand away but he doesn’t let her. She’s the only one who saw him that night, when his brain wouldn’t shut down and he spent _hours_ working himself into exhaustion in hopes of a dreamless sleep. He was desperate by the time she found him, driven to the edge by his own damn stamina keeping him from what he wanted, and he let himself go. He yelled, he hit things, he said things to her his cover never would. She didn’t run away or hide, she just stood there and took it and, when he was done, moved slowly forward, like she was approaching a wild animal. She gave him every opportunity to pull back, to see what she was about, so that when she hugged him it was _his choice_ to let her.

“I don’t want to do that to you.” Just the thought of _anyone_ doing that to Simmons - of what Bakshi might have made her do back when he was in charge of her - makes his blood boil. What the hell was Coulson _thinking_ sending her undercover?

“So, do you want first or second shower?” he asks.

“First,” she says softly, head still bent over his arm. He expected more of a fight - shouldn’t making her own decisions be harder for the recently brainwashed? - and lets her slip from his grasp before he can question it. She rushes into the bathroom without another word.

He shakes himself and strips off the rest of his grubby clothes. Now that he’s got a little breathing room, it’s time to figure out what the hell he’s gonna _do_.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t do a great job. Even with Simmons taking an impressively long shower (either that five minute rule got abandoned when they moved off of the Bus or complaint Simmons is too damn happy to care), he doesn’t manage to get past the plan to _make_ a plan before she emerges. He does think to set out some clothes for her though - pants with a drawstring and the tightest shirt he’s got (and they’re still probably too big for her) - so at least he’s not having a complete mental block.

He knows he’s gotta get her out - and _soon_ , before Whitehall can decide to give her to someone else or just have his own fun with her (Grant’s skin is still crawling from the way he touched her) - but he has no idea how. This little trip inside HYDRA is deep cover.

Well, half-cover. Coulson was _really_ pissed; if things don’t work out there, he’d rather not burn any bridges here.

Point is, Grant doesn’t know _how_ to get out.

He rubs his towel furiously over his scalp and wraps it around his waist before coming out of the bathroom so fast, Simmons cringes. He was right; she’s practically swimming in his clothes. She looks like a kid playing dress-up. That’s what he tries to convince himself of anyway because, with her giving him those doe eyes from the middle of the bed, it is way too easy to see her as something else entirely.

He always thought she’d be unbearably light, but she was a nice, solid weight on his lap earlier. He imagines her bending over him again, this time with that wet, finger-combed hair framing her face-

He slams his sock drawer shut.

He can hear the mattress springs jump but he doesn’t face her. He sits to pull on his boxers under the towel and then takes a minute - one that probably scares her half to death (assuming she’s even capable of being scared of him) with how still he gets - to get his head on straight. He doesn’t want her; he wants _Skye_. He’s just hopped up from Whitehall’s little voyeur session, that’s all.

Once he’s sure he’s himself again, he moves to the head of the bed. He pulls the blankets down and Simmons crab-walks to get under them.

“We’re just sleeping,” he says and waits until she nods to get in himself. He lays flat on his back, closest to the door, and she lays on her side facing him, one hand cushioning her head.

He replays the mission, same as he usually does, but it doesn’t bring him peace. Maybe it’s the memory of having to protect one of his team from danger, maybe it’s _failing_ \- or maybe it’s that she’s still awake.

“I said that we’re _sleeping_ ,” he says, his eyes still shut.

“Why are you doing this?”

He frowns and turns his head on the pillow to face her. “Doing what?”

She worries her lip in that way she does, the one she has _no idea_ makes every man around her think filthy thoughts. “Pretending you want me when you don’t.”

“Who says I don’t?” He winces internally and she raises an eyebrow, clearly judging him. He sighs. “We’re still friends; I’m just trying to protect you.”

Something flickers across her face and he wonders if her hatred is enough to outstrip the brainwashing, albeit momentarily.

“Hey.” He rolls to his side to face her more fully. “Whatever happens in here is your call, okay? In here, you do what you want. Outside, that’s where you’re happy to comply. How does that sound?”

She frowns. “So, if I were to want to do something that you don’t…?”

“In here? Go for it. Marathon _Doctor Who_. Use up all my shampoo - not that I really need much these days. Whatever you want, Jemma.”

He sees his mistake, but he doesn’t do anything to stop her. She lunges forward and presses her lips to his again. This kiss is more hesitant, more unsure, and he probably lets it go on a few seconds too long.

“No,” he says, turning his face away. “Don’t follow Whitehall’s orders-”

“I’m not,” she interrupts. Her hands are on his chest. Her hands have _been_ on his chest a thousand times before, it shouldn’t be anything new, but here, in his bed, with the taste of her on his tongue and no latex gloves between them, it feels _very_ new.

He pushes up, sitting against the headboard and running his hands over his scalp while he tries to make sense of this.

“If you don’t want me,” she says softly, “just say.” She’s sitting up too, facing him with her legs curled under her so she looks small and deliciously vulnerable. “I don’t want to hurt you the way she did either.”

He groans and closes his eyes - he can’t _think_ while he looks at her (the collar of that shirt he gave her is a _lot_ lower than he realized). That turns out to be another mistake because she takes advantage of his distraction to straddle his lap again.

“If you tell me it was a lie, I’ll believe you,” she says, meeting his eyes with painfully earnest ones.

Part of him feels victorious that she’s still questioning even this far past his true loyalties coming to light, but the rest of him just feels conflicted. It wasn’t _all_ lies. He liked making her smile, liked that all he had to do to get her attention off Fitz was walk into the room, and he’s not gonna pretend she’s not attractive (in his current circumstances, that’s sure to be a losing battle).

“I’m in love with Skye,” he says weakly.

She crosses her arms behind his neck and leans in. “You’re _obsessed_ with Skye,” she breathes, “there’s a difference.”

She makes him forget his arguments, forget Skye, forget this entire clusterfuck of a day. And he lets her.

 

\-----

 

Jemma lays curled against Ward’s side. She can’t be certain he’s sleeping, it would be just like him to pretend, but she likes watching him all the same. It’s much more appealing here than it was watching the security feed from Vault D.

He’s a puzzle, one she’s not certain even she can solve. He protects her from Whitehall, refuses to take advantage of her - and _that_ was beyond frustrating. If she has to pretend to be brainwashed (thank _goodness_ her efforts to break it were truly successful; she only hopes Coulson’s plans to get her out a second time work as well), she rather thought finally determining whether he lived up to her fantasies would make it worth the rest. It did, as it turns out, but he made her work for it, didn’t he?

She sighs and settles her cheek more comfortably against his shoulder. His heartbeat is steady beneath her ear, soothing. She doesn’t know that she’ll ever understand him, but if she has to be trapped among the wolves, at least one appears to be on her side.

 


End file.
